pretend not to notice, please
by the drowsy poet
Summary: Percy gets stuck underneath a bed that is not his own, and the events that occur are not expected. Perciver and pie, a Christmas present for Ramblings of a Deranged Mind.


**A/N: MERRY CHRISTMAS, POTTERHEADS. Joy to you all. I dedicate this fic to the beautiful Ramblings of a Deranged Mind, who asked for Perciver and nice grammar and pie. I hope you enjoy this, dear. Have a wonderful day. Also for the Character Diversity Bootcamp, Percy as the character, "dark" as the prompt.**

* * *

It is Christmas Eve, and you are stuck beneath a bed that isn't even your own with steadily growing fury and a neck that aches more than you can think to say.

...You also think there might be a pie under here. _Sure,_ so it's half eaten, congealing, and containing something that's most definitely _not_ human - but it's a pie all the same, and it's under a bed. _Oliver's bed_.

(A bed you would much rather be stuck _in_, not _under - but why are you even considering this? - _you don't want to be stuck here at _all.)_

(_Do you?)_

You bring your thoughts to a halt. If weren't for your roommate's _goddamned untidiness _and his _oh so precious Quidditch practice _you wouldn't have to be anywhere near the aforementioned bed_ anyway, _and you swear to Merlin, when he comes back you are going to -

"Perce?"

You attempt to sit up and subsequently bang the back of your head against the iron bedstead. _His_ iron bedstead. You swear profusely, and Oliver, your _bloody shitfaced bastard of a roommate, _sits casually on your own bed, and grins.

"Perce, you okay?"

He is such _an arsehole._

"No, I'm not _fucking okay_."

He frowns, and your face falls further than before.

You notice that his usually perfect hair is windswept, his cheeks rosy with cold, and his red and gold Gryffindor scarf is wet from the melted snow. Your normal feeling of just wanting to scream is replaced with another: another, different feeling, one that you're not sure you like but can't judge until you _know_ you don't, not until you know for sure.

"Oh."

You have found out.

"M'sorry," you mumble into the rug.

His face lights up.

(You attempt to stifle your own smile, and fail.)

(He pretends not to notice because he knows by now you'd want him to.)

(You are grateful.)

* * *

By the time you are free, your neck is cricked and there is the imprint of a shoe on Oliver's Quidditch duvet cover.

You are both smiling.

"What were you doing, anyway? Looking for monsters?"

You consider telling him, watching as his frown appears and he musters up the courage to apologise to you. And he will, he'll apologise, he'll be meek and he'll be sorry but your friendship for this night will already be over before it's even begun.

"Oh, yeah. Had a bad dream," you joke. You hope you're not so _bland_ and _awkward_ with this whole "humour" thing as the twins say you are, because this is Oliver, and you actually give a damn about what he thinks of you. You make your eyes focus on a point where you can't look straight at him, can't see his eyebrows as they raise or his mouth as it twitches in a surprised amusement.

But it's you who has to be surprised, instead, because his reply is not as expected.

"Don't worry, Perce. Everyone has nightmares," he says seriously.

You think that's the end but he carries on speaking:

"Even big scary monsters from under the bed have nightmares, don't you, monster?"

He ducks down and peers under the bed, checking the dark expanse jokingly _(or is it?)_ for yellow eyes gleaming from the black or knife wielding maniacs or billows of ominous smoke. There is nothing to be seen but socks and parchment. The pie has disappeared.

You don't look at him. You look at the crimson carpet and the condensation on the windows and the yellowing patch of wall, because looking at him now would be to succumb to whatever impulses are driving you at the moment, and you can't.

(Can't let them beat you.)

"I used to have nightmares," he whispers.

He sits on the floor. You join him. Your silence is nothing if companionable, and you want him to expand but you don't mind if he doesn't, he has already opened up to you enough tonight. Almost out of nothing. You could sit here and not speak at all, not even a word, just to be there would be satisfaction enough.

It dawns on you that even the most confident of people have issues: even _Oliver_. Even Quidditch Captain extraordinaire, infamous ladies man and full time hunk. Nobody ever to be associated with someone as _boring_ and _work driven_ as Percy Weasley, the killjoy brother of Harry Potter's friend. Of the twins, of the dragon tamer and the of the Quidditch players and of the pretty eyed girl with the lovely hair.

Your troubles seem tiny compared to those of the world.

You wait for him to pour out his heart, and it takes him an hour, just staring into the dark silence. Once he is finished you look him in the eyes. You are not Percy; he is not Oliver.

He kisses you in the dark as the midnight bells chime.

* * *

Christmas morning arrives.

You wear your new, emerald jumper down to breakfast and he laughs into his toast as he sees you arrive. You speak only to wish him a "merry christmas," but it's enough.

You have said all that can be said - and if there's more - you can find out later.

His kiss is still lingering on your lips.

* * *

**Props for anyone who can spot the Doctor Who reference.**


End file.
